Page 42 of Hat Trick Holidate

“Perfectly cooked.”

“It is. I’m going to come here every night.”

“I thought you were going to the Skyloft for dessert every night.”

“Damn, I’m going to be busy,” I burst out, and his square jaw widens when he laughs. I’m enjoying our date despite the tension surrounding my question about his brother.

We finish dinner and leave a half bottle of wine. Brad says he’ll take it to the putting green if we’d like, and Bryce gives him approval.

As I mix the liquor with wine, I get totally slap happy. I need to powder my nose.

“It’s my turn to use the potty. Oops, sorry. I use those words with Jolie. Oops, I’m not supposed to talk about Jolie. But can I just say I love her? I think she’s close to having a breakthrough.” I can’t stop my incessant rambling—it’s my nervous tick.

“Thanks. I’ll settle up while you’re in the… potty.” A chuckle pushes up his throat, and it’s so cute.

I’m smiling so hard, my cheeks hurt. He’s a damn dream. Not just his looks and his body, but he’s funny, sarcastic, charming, and all of the good adjectives I can’t think of at the moment. I may be falling for someone I can’t have.

He’s waiting at the bar for me, and he guides me to the outside putting green. We pick up our putters and a basket of balls. He goes first and sinks one from five feet. Then I do the same.

“Wanna wager on who can hit the most hole-in-ones?” he asks.

“You do know I’m a country club kid.”

“I also know you prefer Jujitsu.”

“Deal. If I win, you have to take me to Skyloft for dessert. If you win, not that you will, what do you want?”

His eyes travel from my face to my cleavage and over my hips. “Dessert sounds perfect.”

Well, that just sent shivers down my spine and heat to my core.

There are markers around the green with the distance to the cup, and we’re tied, having hit three of five into the cup on the first try. He sinks his last putt, so the pressure is on.

Bryce leans over my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “I’ve thought about your ass for years.”

His body presses into mine from behind and on instinct, I push my ass into his groin. A hard ridge rests between my dress-covered cheeks. “Rusti, I need you. All of you. I think you want me between your thighs, kissing your neck,” he says as he moves my hair off my shoulder, and his lips sear my skin with succulent kisses.

I grind my ass against his erection and let the putter fall to the ground. Hooking my arm around his neck, I hold his mouth in place. “More. More.” I pant.

“More of what?” he asks, his voice low, and I feel a rush of arousal wetting my panties.

“Of you, making me tingle...”

He doesn’t answer, but his calloused fingers climb up my legs, under my dress and as his fingers slide under the lace, he rasps, “Love how wet you are, and we’re just getting started.”

As he fondles my folds and glides through them, my skin prickles. I’m so turned on at the thought of getting fingeredwhere someone could catch us and the fact it’s Bryce Wynward doing it. The man who singlehandedly pulled me from the depths of depression. That night gave me confidence which isn’t always easy when you’re bigger than the average woman.

In this moment, he praises me, “Beautiful. Sexy.” He continues his finger assault that makes me want an all-out war, not just a battle.

My body tightens as his thumb presses hard on my bundle of nerves while he’s got two fingers inside me. “Come for me.”

“No.”

“Why?” he rasps.

“I don’t want it to end.”

“How far is your house?”

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